


llibertat

by id_ten_it



Series: The golden journey [1]
Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Americans, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Male Character, British Character, F/M, Heavy Angst, M/M, Military, Military Ranks, Mission Fic, Monks, Other, Personal Growth, Shooting, Shooting Guns, Singing, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-08 02:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13448598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: Soap is being sent on a suicide mission to Montserrat, in Catalonia; he'll leave behind Officers who don't know he knew, his unit, and his girl. Loosely influenced by current events.Triggers for standard mil ops/ getting shot/ suicide bombers/ suicidal thoughts





	1. Murphy's Law of Combat #17: There is no such thing as a perfect plan.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dunedain789](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunedain789/gifts).



> 'llibertat' means liberty.
> 
>  
> 
> https://americanmilitarynews.com/2017/05/fascinating-video-shows-how-everyday-sounds-trigger-veterans-with-ptsd/

Grip. Settle. Drop shoulders, lower back. Inhale. Push. Push. Muscles bunch. Keep pushing. Stop. Exhale. Down. Grunt. Repeat. Repeat until burning shoulders and biceps tell you something is happening. Until there’s nothing to see but the steady rise and fall of the bar above you, nothing to hear but the grunts of your own body pushing back, nothing to feel but broad brushstrokes of pain along every muscle fibre.

“I ate your dinner.”

I’m not surprised by Riley’s words, but keep going, keep pushing. He’s been there for long enough now that I can smell him. A grunt coincides with his announcement and he affects to take it as a response. “It was very tasty. I didn’t know they served you haggis on your birthday.”

 

If it were possible I’d swear at him. The grunt this time is suitably unimpressed instead. Apparently not unimpressed enough to stop him from sitting down on the bench next to me. “Or Whiskey. It was pretty damn good actually…I really must work on training them to do the same fo-“ He breaks off to grab the bars, dumping them unceremoniously onto the rack where they belong before I can throw them at him, running over to the corner by the treadmills, taking a flying leap over them and laughing as I run over to do the same. Bastard turned it on! I’m running full tilt trying to get at the controls to stop it, pinioned by the walls from jumping off it and scared of trying to use my hands in case I break an expensive piece of kit. Or the machine.

 

“You know you used to be able to run faster than the machine” the limey bastard taunts, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, smirk as wide and murky as the Thames. “Now you’re just a slow Michelin man.”

I give up, skidding off behind it and searching for a stick to poke him with, or to turn off the machine so I don’t look like a one-man Laurel and Hardy. It’s while I’m wheeling a weights bar complete with weight because I hate having to wrestle with them more than necessary that he slips out and around to the door. “You’re getting slow mate. You really think having biceps the size of Bournemouth’ll help you? Anything will it’ll be running.” As if to prove the point I was suddenly alone in the gym. Tossing the weights back on the tree I content myself with a shower, ignoring his so called ‘words of wisdom’.  It’s not like running is going to make me feel nearly as good, or solve anything. Running away just means you have to fight another day.

 

*** Riley’s POV ***

 

Because he’s a Captain, he has plenty of other friends of his own rank. There’s no shortage of officers to go around, so they always say and they’re right – never one when you need one and always one when you want to sit down and bunk off. He’s mine though. My responsibility and my problem. Sometimes even my friend, though obviously we wouldn’t talk about most of that stuff and never in public. The point is, he’s actually my responsibility, when it comes down to it. So if he stuffs up who does it come down to? Someone they’ll never trust with a commission, that’s who. We all know how the hierarchy works and I’m just about breaking even with it. So how do I get him to stop causing us all the troubles in the world and get back to being himself? In a time frame of about three days, of course. If only it were as simple as getting him a girl. Girls I can do…so long as they’re not for long. If I thought it would help, I’d give him Simone, but that would be a whole new kettle of fish.

 

“What’s the point of being able to run into trouble if I can’t deal it when I get there?” His voice is relaxed, dangerously accented, smoke trailing from his fingers as he talks.

“It’s got more to do with getting out, you prick.” He’s nicked my smokes again, which is something I’d usually complain about. “Remember that last bit of every brief?”

He fixes me with a look that speaks volumes, so I help myself to a smoke and light it from his, too lazy to try and find the lighter I know is probably also in his hands. Thieving bugger. “When?”

“Leaving tomorrow. They told me on Monday but I was only going through the files yesterday. It’s…pretty soon after Ozone. They don’t know I know.”

Nodding, I consider his options. There aren’t many really. He can go and get killed, knowing that even with a successful outcome he won’t be coming back on the exit they’ve planned, knowing that it exists only on paper…or he can pretend to go and disappear, to live whatever sort of life he can scrounge. If he’s lucky he’ll get some sort of cover story sorted and find a girl for a few months, maybe even a couple of years. But they’ll monitor anything that might be him and he knows the risks of causing more innocents neutralised as well as me. 

 

“Shit.” There’s not much else to say as we smoke on in silence. Gradually the sun tints the sky in front of us, moving through the spectrum from a lightly washed grey through oranges and reds to lilac, purple, and finally a deep indigo that gradually fades to black, stars proverbially spilt across it. The whole show takes almost two hours, and through it all the only sounds we make are lazy exhalations of smoke and ice-cut breaths. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I’m trying not to think at all, to ignore the gnawing certainty that this is the last time we’ll do this, the last time I can complain to him about smokes, or my lighter (which in fairness does always turn up again), the last time he’ll even sit in this base and perhaps the last time I’ll sit here without red flashes on. He’s said before if there’s any justice in the world I’ll get promoted and shifted, made an officer, given my own squad, and John MacTavish is very good at wrangling things. There’s a fierce uprising in my chest as I glance over at him and hope with every fibre of my own lean, scruffy being, that that extends to wrangling his own life back.

 

“I know there’s a girl…” I trail off delicately so he can glower at me and tell me to fuck off.

“Piss off” he says, automatically, like he doesn’t even care. I take it as an indication that I can continue and do so, “going to tell her?”

“What’s there to tell?” He adopts a high-pitched voice which sounds suspiciously Scottish and I wonder briefly if his mother is still alive, if this is going to be the first of many times I hear her voice (‘Yes I’m Mrs MacTavish….no I haven’t heard from my lad lately…I did know he was in the army yes…on operations you say?.....’ I turn away from the internal monologue, foolishly postponing a moment my brain knows it will have to deal with.) “Oh John don’t go! I hate it when you aren’t here! Promise me you’ll come back!” Clearing his throat he adds bitterly, “I always promise her. I always mean it, too. But this time I know that I won’t. How can I look her in the eyes then?” For the smallest moment the eyes that meet mine are anguished and confused before they skitter away to look at the clouds instead. Fitting.

 

“You could take her with you.”

My suggestion is met by snorting and a discarded cigarette butt, “You don’t know her well enough. She loves stability. Change isn’t good for her. She’d need another job as well…” I frown a little, having always thought they’d met at the café she worked at. That’s how I’d met her…the only way any of us got a good look at her charms. Apart from tomorrow’s mission, John had all the luck. If you liked them dark and permanent that is.  
 “Well so would you. It’s not like you can live off your millions forever.”

 

His laughter is a startling sound, but heartening, “God you’ll never let me live that down, will you?” Fondly he cuffs my head, “need your hair cut. You look like a bloody scarecrow.”

It doesn’t solve anything but I feel a bit better anyway and I like to think he does too. “I need to look like a scarecrow. I’m going into town and I don’t want to pick up some horrid old hag!” With a grin I wander along the path, “I’ll see you at the pub. My shout.” Unsurprisingly that gets him running off and I take the opportunity to thrust some money into his pocket on his way. That should keep him occupied long enough for me to cause a mild distraction and copy over all of the files so I can find out the full brief – I seriously doubt that Soap, flashed and experienced as he is, is capable of getting through all of their measures to see the full picture. I have no idea what I’m looking for but I hope like hell that I can find it, and find it before he comes back and chews me out for standing him up, fucks me into the bed, apologises and lets us enjoy one last night together and then buggers off to see the girl before disappearing forever. No pressure, Riley. None at all.

 

 

It takes a moment to work out where in the world we are since it’s not as far East or West as I’d expect. In fact it’s really just across the water, being in Catalonia, Spain. I can’t quite repress a remembering smile at the location and a very nice long weekend with Simone despite the seriousness of the words in front of me and the symbols on the map. It’s been a while since anyone worried about these separatists – there’s enough to worry about with the peaceful, purely political, movements that they engage in. Skimming through the pages, sentences jump out at me:

“The ERC has gained more seats, being seen as a more genuine separatist party. Artur Mas’ late-comers move to the separatist camp has therefore in a sense backfired as he can no longer lead outside of an alliance.”

“Economic concerns are adding to the fire of Catalonian Separatism.”

“Due to the high tax rates and large economy of the region, many feel that economic freedom from Span is in their best interests.”

“Preserving the status quo in the region is important not only for regional stability within Spain but also with regards to more violent groups such as the Basques.”

 

It’s pretty clear what the general brief is and I don’t have time to read the in-depth analysis of Catalonian history which appears to span on for another hundred pages or so, so I flick back to the map and try and work out which words might appear in the closer mission briefing that will help me. Some stand out as I scroll through, glancing at the other page for confirmation. Montserrat. The serrated mountain with the monastery. I once rock climbed nearby, listening to the choir boys stunning the tourists. Luckily that isn’t on my record. Another name, another place. If it were….I’d probably be the one looking at a suicide run.

 

The brief is unsurprisingly detailed and includes the instructions that the material in the caves above the monastery (and perhaps the workers who are related to them and store them and arrange access) are to be neutralised and anybody who might have knowledge of the event soon after it happening are also to be neutralised. No wonder MacTavish dug around a bit – this one is suspiciously heavy for what is apparently a milk run. There’s obviously a catch and the equally obvious place for it to be is Barcelona. The route in is the tourist train and then the funicular as a drop, mentions a side note, is too memorable for a tourist area; no agent wants to be remembered, no matter who they’re operating under at the time. The exit route is just as carefully presented as a walk over the hills. This not being possible I explore alternative routes to suggest to Soap which involve biking in, driving in, and (though I don’t think he’ll go for this one) going in as a lone Monk on a pilgrimage. Getting out isn’t so easy but my personal opinion is that with a lot of tourists, workers, pilgrims and children (with family to visit them), it can’t be hard to sneak out if they don’t know what you look like which should be doable if they haven’t seen him go _in_. Provided the caches weren’t being actively watched then nobody could get the information through in time to stop him getting out and going south. Or coming West again and then back home even though it was hard to say where home would be for him now. Finally, in the event that he thinks he can’t get away safely, I prepare a last-resort back door that I have to steel myself to include in the brief. He’ll probably kill me and die from laughter himself all at once.

 

 

“You really think it’ll come to that? If it’s that easy why didn’t they…”

“Hey, I tell you how to deal with our men, not how to deal with your brethren.” To soften the blow I can see that’s struck, I clap his shoulder heartily, “I came from a different angle – two different ones really. You had to live and you could come in a different way. I still think you could cut loose you know.”

His grunt makes me realise that I’m right about him and the mixed feelings let me grunt back, “You know I’ll always have your back.” Soap’s smile is almost tender as he helps himself to my last smoke and stands, taking the papers and shoving them inside his shirt. “I’ll let you know if I get out…keep an eye on the papers.”

It’s eerily quiet after he’s gone. The sound of the clock, the trucks being checked nearby, both sound unreasonably loud for 11pm.


	2. Murphy's Law of Combat #80: To steal information from a person is called plagiarism. To steal information from the enemy is called gathering intelligence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds a poor unsuspecting soul, and relieves him of his treasures.  
> You've got to feel sorry for the guy. It can't be fun to be lugged around the place by a massive Scotsman.

*** MacTavish’s POV ***

 

The cold is biting and even though I’ve only just landed and I’m now seated on the train with a mass of other tourists, my bones are chilled. Kath would say it’s not the first time my bone has felt bad for the cold! Of course, she’d warm it for me too…Reading a Spanish guide book I can hide my face and look around with ease; I attempt the same cover at the Funicular once I get a ticket, breathing as slowly as I can, trying to look like every other tourist here. It almost works. A split-second glance is all it takes to tell me that the driver is suspicious and I doubt my Spanish, let alone the Catalan I force-fed myself on the trip here. Languages have never been my forte so I approach him with a touch of a swagger. “Trying to learn the lingo, Senor.” American I can pull off and he raises an eyebrow as he checks the ticket I hold out to him.

“It can be hard.” The look is of one expecting a certain response but I smile the smirk of a pleased American and nod. “I’ve always found it more than a bit tricky. Thanks.” It’s only after I’ve walked up the stairs, past trailing families and a huge number of wheelchairs, that I realise perhaps I shouldn’t have talked to him. Tourists are notorious for curiosity but even garrulous Americans don’t engage the driver of a small Funicular when he’s made a smidgeon of eye contact. Suddenly feeling very exposed I dodge into the middle of a real group of tourists and tug my hoodie closer, trying to look a little swamped by it.

 

While I’m sauntering up the stairs that really are made for the faithful only, I keep my eyes peeled. It’s a lot harder to notice communications now everyone has cell phones but still easy to tell when people are looking for you. While others are exploring the local delicacies at the market, I’m searching the sellers’ eyes, marking two as certain and another three probable – that’s almost 80% of them looking for someone. I wish I knew what the description was that he’d put out! Speed is no good to me here since they’re clearly very well networked. Best to lie low. Caution demands that I immediately retreat to the caves further up the path and then into the Monastery itself later on that day. Caution demands in vain. I’m looking for a way out, a way to buy my freedom!

 

Up the path from the market are the main doors and I duck inside of them to reconsider the map. One more tourist gaping at a map isn’t about to attract attention, and there aren’t any cameras here. Dangerous though it is I still want to try the same exit point – Barcelona or anywhere along the near coast to get me out onto the water and then to relative safety. Anything other than using the so called ‘fantastic plan’ that Ghost produced. Bloody fool. As I’m searching the northern tip of the Nave, I’m grabbed from behind. Short, I immediately think, because there’s a head butting into my stomach.

 

“Stop that!” If anyone hears they pay no attention but training is deeply ingrained. He’s strong, the little man. It takes most of my strength to push him back into the doorway and all of it to free an arm from his grip. I hit out. He ducks. I hit again but this time faster, helped along by Ghost’s laughing gob reminding me he was right about my lack of speed. Without a sound he’s at my feet. I knock a couple of sounds out of him for good measure – not out of malice or anything like that, simply because I don’t trust him not to come to and hit me. A quick glance around. As I catch my breath and straighten my clothes I consider him. Swarthy. Dark. Hair slightly longer than even Ghost would wear it, though obviously not as long as Simone’s, and as for Kath’s... He is short, too, short enough that when I pick him up he sits more easily than Kath does; he doesn’t have to put his arms around his neck to keep himself upright when I can lean his torso against mine. His feet don’t start flying out and hitting priceless Catholic artefacts either and I entertain the idea that we might make it up to the caves without anybody being able to follow us. Folly of course, but I really don’t like the way Ghost is looking like being right.

 

Without a pack there’s nothing to hang the man on so he stays where he is while I sneak through the cloisters and towards a sheltered rock wall. There’s a path but of course with a potential source of information I can’t use it. Small he might be, but his muscled frame ensures he’s heavy enough to be a problem. No matter how I try and arrange him I simply can’t get him to stay without needing to at the least clasp both of his wrists with one hand. There’s simply no way up with him in tow. Which means that I’ll need to leave him here. I wish someone had bothered to tell me which of the hundreds of rooms, alleyways, and corridors weren’t in use so I could simply leave him there instead of having to walk around trying to find a rocky corridor or at least outcrop of my own. There are several, but of course most of them face the plaza-like area where the market, monastery and church all open onto and where the path further up the hill starts. Carefully balancing him and finding an appropriate place to lie him down is difficult but I manage it before lunch time. Hard to think of lunch after all of the other things which have been going on! Experience has taught me I must eat though so I hunker down with the man and munch on a sandwich. Some picnic.

 

*** Informant POV ***

 

Groggily, the Catalan groaned and shifted, everything hurting as he did so. Or perhaps just his head hurt; it was hard to tell. The point was, he hurt, and the man sitting next to him munching on sandwiches with apparent relish and a certainly unneeded amount of noise didn’t care. “Oh so you’re awake are you?” That voice!

“About bloody time, too. Now how about you tell me what you hope to get out of this? Separation isn’t as fantastic as you first think. You’ve had years to think on that. So why are you all bent on violence all of a sudden?”

His Catalan was shocking. Awfully hard to understand and all. The words were slow, the accent laboured. I played dumb. “I no understand.”

“Of course you do!” it was a roar. The echoes lasted at least as long as the shaking he was giving me. Everything hurt some more. Of course they weren’t tears rolling down my face. It’s just hard to keep track of everything when there’s a bear shouting at you and luncheon-flavoured spittle flying into your eyes.

“I n-no...” another shake. I think one of my teeth fell out. “I won’t tell you!”

 

My tooth was definitely loose by the time he’d found out where the cave was and kicked me hard enough that I wouldn’t be running away in a hurry.

“If you’re lucky I’ll come back this way. If you’re not your ‘friends’ will have something to say to you about that.” He dropped me to the floor like so much rubbish and that was the last I remembered until Stefan kicked me in the ribs at some stage when it was dark outside.

 

*** MacTavish’s POV ***

 

The wind slunk through my hoodie, twining around my neck. Treacherously I again considered Kath and her delight in being warm, trying to push away the pleasant feeling which settled in the back of my mind at the remembrance of her. I headed further up the path, blending as best as I could with the continuing groups of tourists who moved up with me. Some of them were pushing prams with squalling babies, others hefting large amounts of rock climbing equipment but the groups which were of most use to me were the tourist busses crunching their way over the sandy-style rock. As far as I could tell there were no locals peering at me from behind rocks or even trying to blend in as I was, which meant that they’d be wondering where I’d got to, especially assuming that I’d managed to get it right and hide the informer somewhere they wouldn’t be able to find him. There’d be a few hours that they’d have been looking for me and would therefore be looking for me again, which would give me the edge. I hoped.

 

The gravel pathway gave way to smoother rock as I edged higher and higher along the route which faithful had used for centuries, and the separatists for decades. With all of the information I’d gathered and been given, I knew exactly how to get to their particular set of caves. In twenty minutes the cool stone was under my hands as well as my feet as I hugged the natural monolith and gauged who was in there. Thanks to the weather the rocks weren’t interfering with any of the heat sensors so I had a beautiful reading of an empty cave. Peering around the edge I slipped the sensor back into my pocket and slipped inside, finding the correct pile of plastic-covered electronics and rummaging through them with gloved hands. Ten minutes later a slight electrical smell was coming off the device in my hands as all of the information was being copied over into it. Whilst it was working I prodded around and sought any other information I could find, coming up with a few other plans which I might find useful to sell off to people – provided I got back to sell it in the first place. The heat sensor started picking up movement just as the transfer was complete. Hastily, trying not to rustle the plastic, I returned everything, darting to the edge of the cave and augmenting the sensor with the good old Mark 1 eyeball.

 

Fifty metres away and moving slowly over the terrain were three men. They were uphill from me and I could hear their voices as they moved closer. There was no doubt that they were heading towards the same cave. My heart rate increased. Adrenaline flowed. There really was no way out along the path without being seen. If I was seen I’d be detained.   
Carefully I turned, keeping the heat sensor in my field of vision, and exploring the back of the cave. In the very far left hand corner, behind the old stacks of antennae boxes, was a small hollow. Thankfully, breathing through my mouth, I dropped behind them. That should keep me quiet. The figures were moving very slowly towards me. I hoped that meant they didn’t know I was about and would be moving off as soon as they’d picked up what they needed.   
The cold stones were pressed against my legs as I curled into the smallest crouch I could. Hidden but able to react should I have to.

 

Well, the idea of them moving off quickly was shot to pieces moments later.  They settled down and started smoking. Si would have an absolute field day if he saw me now, craving the smokes they were having. It took a couple of hours for them to start wondering what they’d do next. My legs were completely numb by the time they stood and dusted off their pants, heading out of the cave. I ached to stretch them out but couldn’t risk it for another half hour at least. Slowly, careful of where my unfeeling limbs were going, I prepared to stand. Judging by the rapidly cooling air it was heading on to nightfall and I hoped that the cave would remain empty for long enough for me to slip out and hide in the opposite set of caves.

 

By the time it was completely dark, I was halfway back down the mountain, hidden in the same set of caves I’d been eyeing up earlier. I stepped carefully around the litter the three of them had left by the doorway. Judging from the occasional hurrying footsteps that I’d heard, they’d discovered the man I’d questioned and were now looking for me. With the tourist transport completely gone and the only other completely neutral inhabitants of the mountain fast asleep I wasn’t moving anywhere quickly, if at all. I hadn’t seen any bicycles and I really didn’t think that trying to find and appropriate a car would be at all subtle. That left Simon. Bloody Si.  There was no way that I was telling him how right he was.

 

With another glance at the heat sensor I rummaged in my bag, quickly changing into more appropriate clothes for the next stage in the plan. It took two tries to get the bag packed so my sneakers didn’t dig into my back but soon enough I was ready to move on. With a quick sideways shuffle I was bouldering along to the monastery itself, the cool rocks giving way to warm rough bricks as I shimmied over the roof and found an open window. Ten minutes later I was considering which of the robes in the wardrobe were the right set to wear. Vague recollections of the pictures Si had described flew through my mind and I dragged on an appropriate looking set, tying up the rope in the middle and trying to look more scuffled. The backpack looked like a good thing to keep. Quite apart from anything it was a great way to blend in once I met the city again. Casting about for some cushions I became, in short order, a much older, beer-bellied monk.

 

***

 

The stairs were stone and so didn’t creak, but my robes made a slight whisper over the floor as I made my way down them. Every now and then, the age of the steps made them uneven, so progress in the darkened halls was slow.   
Slow was good, one of my instructors used to say at the range. Snipers never hurried.   
Except morning would be breaking soon so perhaps a good balance between not hurrying and getting the heck away from everyone before the reinforcements arrived and I turned into a hotspot of interest was a good idea. Once out onto the plaza I felt my way towards the path which led down to the original chapel and caves. There was a way from there back under the funicular’s platform where I could hide out and be covered from any interference measures they had to find me. I had no idea, of course, what monitoring systems they had, but I had to assume something. Alternatively, I could take the safe way out. The way to which I was half-way committed already.

 

Making my way was easier outside. The stars were a lot clearer here than they were in a city. Almost as clear as when I was in the desert. The sweep of the Milky Way gave off a good amount of light so I knew I wasn’t going to walk off the side of the cliff, or into a tree.

 

Turning right down the pathway the wind quickened across my cheeks as the ground sloped down towards the main roads. As the sun rose so did my hunger and thirst but there was no way to stop for another drink – everything I carried I carried in a complex arrangement under my robe as a belly so I wouldn’t be taking in anything other than air for a while longer. The road was smooth enough that there was space to think as I moved along, and think I did. It was too soon to start thinking about Kath and the possibility of seeing her and living with her for good, but it was certainly time to start thinking about getting into Barcelona. By the time I hit the town it would be crawling with people looking for me but if there was a chance, I’d be on the first boat out of there.


	3. Murphy's Law of Combat #11: Never go to bed with anyone crazier than yourself. (or: An introspective interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon distracts himself from John's probable death the only way he knows how - by focusing on something worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to all the transformative people who have been, or are currently, in the same place, and especially to Lucy. Without her bravery and persistence, there would be many many more people in the same position. Whether it's 1 or 22 a day, it's still far too many.

She woke slowly, luxuriously, stretching out and feeling her muscles pop her joints back into place. Her hair tumbled, unruly, around her face and she swept it back with a shy smile. The silk caressed her shaved skin invitingly, rubbing against her soft inner thighs. Sitting, she stretched her hands out in front of her, rolling her shoulders to loosen them, bright red nails flashing in the light from her window. This was the life. She smiled more broadly, revealing white, even, teeth as she glanced fondly around her immaculate room. Eventually she leant over, moved the empty bottle to the floor, and lit a tropical scented candle. Breathing the refreshing scent was enough to encourage her to get up.

 

Her morning continued in a gloriously luxurious way until she had a knock on the door. A courier was standing outside, his t-shirt obscured by a scarf and thick puffer jacket. On seeing her, his eyes went wide and he stammered. He was so shocked she barely had a chance to take the box before he was rushing back down the corridor. “Rude” she muttered, closing the front door and catching sight of herself in the mirror on the back of it. The first look was a shock to herself, too.

 

Where she had been feeling shaved feminine legs, strong masculine calves just looked ridiculous sticking out from a black negligée. Where she had been feeling lady-like painted toenails at the end of elegant feet which floated through the night in high heels, now she saw her feet had some dark hairs on the toes still, and the polish looked ridiculous against the callouses from running miles in boots. Finally, where she had been enjoying her luscious breasts just breaching her tight bodice now all she could see was a scar from that time he’d asked a sniper to shoot him running down along his upper arm, which was twitching in embarrassment.

She wasn’t fooling anyone!

 

Locking the door furiously, Si ran to his room and grabbed the nail polish remover, rubbing her toes and fingers raw in her haste. The negligée tore as he ripped it off, silicon breasts bouncing onto the floor. Who was he kidding? Men from the military, proper _manly_ men, didn’t like acting like women. Who was he kidding? No-one else at work had a woman inside, clamouring to be let loose. Who was he kidding? There was no way he could possibly combine the glamourous Simone and the super-macho Simon in one body. If he couldn’t be happy and not hate himself then how could he believe that anyone else would? This was going to be the rest of his life. A brief smile from a colleague, a quick fuck from his boss before he left for a solo run, that was all he would ever get. Nothing else. No more. Alone forever.

Thoughts of John – _no news is good news_ he reminded himself – wrenched an acidic smile across his face. Would John object too much if he took the next suicide mission? And the next. And the next. For as long as it took. Or was that more of his cowardice, that he couldn’t even kill himself.

It was getting too much, if he was being honest, to spend that much time with John. Not that he didn’t want the guy around. John was many things, but Si knew he’d never understand the desperation and the growing certainty that this double life, this reliance on alcohol (and only his job, with its frequent drug tests, stopped it being anything stronger), this black darkness that lifted when someone cuddled him and soothed her and returned again like acid creeping up from his extremities almost before they’d left. If John couldn’t understand it, how could he forgive it? He’d been happy enough out on the pull with Si before but now he was spoken for, there was no interest in such lustful evenings. The days Si could continue without censure were numbered, and then what? He’d be as silent and withdrawn as his own personal Archangel, that’s what. A personality as alien as a vegans.

Slumped on his bed, he got the unmistakable whiff of sex, jarringly reminding him of the last man who had come home with him, looking for ‘something fun before the wife gets home – I’m not gay!’ That happened more and more now but he needed the intimacy, she needed to be touched. Even though the caresses were slowly slicing their heart and ruining her self-belief. But what choice did she have?  
He was going back to work tomorrow, he reminded himself, even as his hand reached out for the bottle. He couldn’t drink.

 

Reminding himself these feeling would pass didn’t help either. The only thing that would distract her, would distract him, from this roiling acid eating at his inside, was thinking about the reason he had fled down here for distraction in the first place. That would be an incapacitating heavy weight soon enough, and he pushed Catalonia out of his mind.

Dressed only in a heinous pair of ripped boxers, though at least having freshly blown his nose, he slunk back to the lounge and sat down at his computer. As it fired up, he looked listlessly into the kitchen and wondered if maybe he should get some of that soothing stuff Ewan always seemed to sip on instead of coffee. He didn’t want another ulcer. Fuck knows, the waiting was literally eating him up inside.  
With a groan of thankfulness, she logged onto an online forum. Her online friends didn’t mind what she looked like!


	4. Murphy's Law of Combat #19: There's no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets off the mountain.

***Riley’s POV ***

 

Base. Dresses hidden deep inside my mind. Back to Simon-the-killer.

Two days and nothing in the news yet, which I have to assume is good news. It’s not like I have a full informant network in Spain, but surely something that big would be on some news site, and I have enough google translate to see that even the separatists’ websites don’t have any information about large Scotsmen being captured.

‘No news is good news’ I repeat, over and over, as I rack my weights and pick up the skipping rope. It makes a good rhythm. Jump- _no_ ­-jump- _news_ -jump- _is_ -jump- _good_ -jump- _news_ ­-jump. Every six jumps it starts again, pounding into my brain. Hopefully one day I’ll be right.

 

*** MacTavish’s POV ***

 

The Monastery grounds were eerily silent at that time of the morning, with only the slight sounds of a morning service coming up from behind me. The bells had all stopped some time ago. Ahead there was nothing, just a view through the funicular tracks out over the plains below, disappearing into early morning dimness and pollution dirtying the horizon. The whole view looked like it had been drawn too quickly by a pencil-sketcher with no idea where to put in some breaks for clear light.

My watch was a military-standard one, with different dials for different time zones and a read out that told me the wind speed and the altitude I was at, so I had taken it off and put it in a pocket under the robe. The only sign of time moving was the gradual, imperceptible, lightening of the vista below. It took place so slowly that it wasn’t until I realised I could see a good three or four miles more that I started to notice. Before, I had only been able to see the indistinct smudge of human landmarks, cloaked by cloud, but now I could see not only a village and its apartment blocks, but also the motorway snaking away towards the hills, and the train tracks occasionally catching a glint of early morning sun.

Carefully, I shifted my weight from side to side, making sure that my feet didn’t have any pins and needles or numbness in them, and that they were ready to respond as soon as I needed them to. As far as I saw it I still had a choice – either go down on the first funicular of the day (and thus potentially show myself and my position clearly to anyone watching, such as the driver), or wait here, silent and unnoticed, until there was a funicular carrying tourists back down later in the day. I didn’t really know how long that would take as I had arrived on one of the later trips; maybe people arrived at ten and were ready to leave by two? That would still give me at least six hours of crouching here hoping that I wasn’t noticed even with people swarming all over the area. I clicked my neck meditatively. Which would they expect me to do? Which would they expect me to expect them to expect me to do?

I remained, sitting so still that I was surprised no wildlife came and made itself a home on my person. To pass the time – and try and keep myself from sinking into the growing fear that this was going to be my last mission in every sense of the word – I sunk into a reverie. A certain dark-haired lady featured rather prominently.

***

Thunk! I jerked my eyes upwards; with a steady grinding, the chain above my head was pulled taught and hitching its way around the cogs to pull up the first funicular of the day. Time to get moving. I ducked out from my little hiding place and, moving just far enough away that, settled on the blind side of a rock. I should be invisible to the driver and patrons of the vehicle. It wouldn’t do to be this close to leaving the mountain and be seen just because I forgot to move. The chain clicked steadily on. It made a sharp mechanical noise in the silent mountain air. The intrusion of humanity in nature. Even the monks were so quiet as to not disturb the numerous small animals and birds I had been able to hear going about their daily business.

Maybe this wouldn’t be a bad place to come for a long weekend of rock climbing and walking, I realised belatedly.

As the funicular clanged against the stops at the top of the track, I held myself very, very still. Nothing like a sudden movement to get people noticing you. With a great deal of chatting and gesturing, the workers disgorged themselves. I hadn’t had a chance to time this before so I had only the faintest of ideas as to how long I might have to hide myself somewhere on the carriage. I had to assume that the driver was looking down the carriage, towards the people pushing past his back, and that so engaged he wouldn’t notice me coming up on the other side and trying to find somewhere to cling on. At least there were no tunnels for us to go through – I wouldn’t have to worry about squeezing myself through them.

Along the side was a sort of cover – I guessed so that people didn’t get pulled under and macerated into mincemeat. Luckily for me it had been stuck on later and formed a small ledge. Not long enough to stand on comfortably but enough to give me a leg up so I could get my fingers around the tops of the windows. In this precarious position I hung, waiting, desperately flexing and relaxing my arms in turn to give my fingers a break. As it got harder and harder to hold on I could see Riley’s grinning face as he told me yet again that I shouldn’t have got so many muscles. Thankfully the bastard was actually useful. I pretended I was throttling his scrawny stupid neck and gripped my fingers tighter. Pulled my lips back in a snarl. Channelled the anger. Tensed my biceps. Clung on for dear life.

Finally, with the same dull scraping sound that it had made on arrival, the funicular was slowly lowered back downwards. The vibrations were horrendous but I growled and held on. After another couple of minutes, when the vibrations had settled and the carriage was swaying more steadily and rhythmically, I craned my neck and stared upwards. I was barely three feet from the top of the carriage and from the steady buzz and hum I could sense the wires were on the other side of the carriage. That made life easier. With only them, on the far side, there was nothing up there to be concerned about hitting, as far as I could make out. Nothing that looked like it wanted to kill me. I shuffled further along, so I was right on the edge of the window.

Carefully, I slid my feet out so I was resting only the tips of my boots against the ledge. I felt the various items secreted under my robe shift and press into me. Why had I decided to put the hard-edged camera against my gut? Taking a deep breath, I straightened my legs, exploding upwards to slam both hands on top of the roof. Trying to ignore the bruises forming on my hip bones, and on my gut where the camera (amongst other things) was now firmly embedded. Exhaling sharply, I bunched my back up and hauled upwards, pulling myself up like an inchworm, flexing back, then putting my fat-monk belly against the carriage to shift my feet up another half foot or so. Once I was sure the contents wouldn’t spill themselves everywhere, and I was high enough to get onto my elbows, and push with my toes, I was up in a couple more wiggles, rolling onto my back and scanning down my body, taking in the length of the funicular. Nothing. The roof was as blank as if it had just rolled off the factory floor. Breathing evenly I carefully moved the offending camera, and the rest of the goods I’d pilfered, around a little to let my body have a chance of recovery.

The wind would be too much for me to sit up against, I decided, but by turning myself a full 180 I could shuffle backwards and get to what was now the front of the funicular. Rolling over again – but carefully, onto my elbows, to protect myself from the stupid camera – I could squint through the wind-tears in my eyes and see the track unfolding beneath me. It looked as though we were a good halfway there already. It was safe to wriggle my watch out now. Checking it I saw I was being a little optimistic and we were past halfway. I didn’t have a lot of time to spy a good disembarkation point. Carefully flexing my feet, stretching out my legs, then doing the same with my arms, I closed my eyes briefly to give them a break from the constant wind buffeting my face. As soon as I opened them I saw it. Just a little copse of trees but it would be enough. I think they were olive trees…I wasn’t really sure. There were quite a few in this landscape, just sort of perched in a dark green way against the rocks. Sort of olive green, so I decided they must be olives. Anyway, whatever they were, they were the closest set to the track and they were also barely a kilometre from the station I wanted to get to. The only thing I was concerned about was that maybe, perhaps, they were so obvious that someone would be waiting for me.

Well, so long as there weren’t too many ‘someones’ I knew I’d be fine. Crablike, mindful of the wind whipping through the dress-like garment I was wearing, I shifted as close to the edge of the carriage as I could. Curled my fingers around the roof, feeling with my foot until it was pressed against the side of the carriage, ready for me to drop off and roll. I shifted down another foot or so, just in case the driver wasn’t the only one in the carriage, just in case the driver had exceptional peripheral vision and saw me drop out of the corner of his right eye. Unlikely but possible.

We turned through the cutting, the carriage leaning just enough for me to dangle into space for a few seconds before I launched myself as far from it as I could. Rolling, grunting as I hit the ground, I caught myself on the trees I had been aiming for and held still. Struggled to control my breathing. Struggled not to curl up over my poor abused torso. Kath was going to be furious if she saw me with all of these bruises. She didn’t mind scars but she liked her man healthy and ready to go, not wincing and lying there too sore to partake of the pleasures she was offering.

I struggled with the robe. I struggled with my breathing.  I struggled with shaking my head clear enough that I could hear the train. I struggled against the crunching of busses arriving and the jabber of tourists pouring off them. The dust I had rolled in kept getting in my throat, and I struggled not to start coughing up great lumps of it. For some time I just lay there. Without a timetable and with all day for traffic to move to and fro, there was no pressing need to reveal myself. I’d decided I would wait until the funicular went past me again on its way back up, thus preventing me from being seen by the driver or her passengers. It took nearly an hour for the chain to clank the funicular back past me, and in that time I had more than recovered. My bruises would no doubt be immense and impressive but they weren’t about to slow me down. How long would it be before I could lose the dress and go back to being a tourist?

Stupid Ghost’s stupid idea is stupid. Stupid Ghost’s stupid idea is that muggins will reassure anyone that he is on a pilgrimage. I’ve never been on a pilgrimage in my life. I know my way around a church, of course – it’s impossible not to with a Grandma like mine – but this is all very Catholic high church and I’m not at all sure I know my way through the quagmire of conformity. If Grandma knew I was doing this she would be down praying for my soul. The thought doesn’t make me smile.

 _'I’m not religious’ I had argued, crossing my arms, not at all petulantly of course._  
_‘Really?’ Si had smirked, leaning back with hooded eyes, looking for all the world as though he was about to enjoy himself far too much. ‘So you wouldn’t say you’re the kind of man to cry out to a deity then.’_  
_‘Not at all’ I confirmed, ‘I haven’t done it when I was shot, and I sure as hell haven’t done it when you’ve been shot.’_  
_‘What about any other time?’ One ankle crossed over the other and I could tell he thought he was goading me into a trap…I just couldn’t see it._ _  
_'Not ever. No dumb rag-head has ever made me pray and neither has anyone else. I’m not religious.’ Worried I’d tumbled him I added, ‘don’t tell my Grandma for goodness’ sake.’__  
_‘I’m not going to tell your Grandma. I don’t think she’d like me very much.’ Si smirked, stretching his arms above his head and making his muscles ripple, ‘either that or she’d like me rather too much’ he added, hooking his interlaced fingers behind his head._  
_‘Are you thinking about sleeping with my Grandma?! You disgusting man!’ I leant towards him, not sure what I intended to do but convinced that had been the rise he’d been patiently preparing for._  
_‘I’m not. I’m just wondering why you insist you’ve never called out to this god chappy you don’t believe in.’ Si fixed me with a sudden steady look, holding my gaze with his own, letting me squirm. Damn he was good at this._  
_‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What are you talking about?’ Two could play at being calm and unconcerned._  
_‘Well from what I remember, you seemed particularly certain there was a god last time I had your cock in my mouth.’ As I open my mouth, Si continues, a sly smirk playing around his damn lips, ‘in fact as I recall you were very very sure of his existence last night.’_  
_‘Last-‘_  
_‘Last night. When you had your dick in my ass.’ With faux concern Si sat forward, ‘Don’t you remember that? If not, perhaps we need to have a repeat performance.’ Licking his lips, he adds, 'or perhaps it's time to switch it up a bit. It'd been nearly a week since I had your ass. Apparently that's enough that you don't remember it, no matter how noisy you were at the time.' His smirk is the sort that makes women and men put up with all the uncertainty he makes in their lives. His smirk is the sort that makes a man raging hard in no time at all._

_Bastard. To be fair, he has lips like an angel would, if angels existed._

A twig broke and I froze, the idle thoughts rushing from my brain as adrenaline flooded it. Very slowly, counting to twenty in my head, I turned to the direction of the break, scanning the whole area.


	5. Murphy's Law of Combat # 41: Professional soldiers are predictable; the world is full of dangerous amateurs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets out of the country. Si makes some decisions.

Luckily the twig had turned out to be a rather inquisitive goat. Shame I couldn’t eat the fellow, he looked quite young and tender. Once the noise had increased rather more, and the funicular was well past on its way up the mountain again, I finished my journey to the train station. I let serenity and tiredness wash over me, and hope I look suitably holy – ‘and celibate’ the Riley in my mind snickers. That man!

Thankfully I have timed this not too badly, and end up on the platform just before the train is departing. I have enough time to buy my ticket and work out the man wants a blessing (I mutter something and wave my hand about like the padre used to, back in the Army), before it’s time to jump on and head towards town.

The main train station is nearly two hours away. The train fills slowly. Nobody gives me a second glance. I hope that I won’t have to try and explain anything. My cover story is paper thin.

Luckily, the train station is more than busy, it is throbbing. I end up in a toilet stall and change as silently as I can, stowing the damned camera into a pants pocket and stashing other goods where I can. The bruising on my torso is yellow and purple. Kath is going to kill me if she sees. She’ll kill me if I don’t come home and settle down soon, but that’s the risk one runs with a strong-minded Scottish lass. Sometimes I wonder if it would do Simon some good to meet someone like her. Make him settle down. He’s so twitchy. Like Roach used to be.

I’ve timed quarter of an hour, which must be more than enough time for anybody standing around seeing me go in to have moved on. Anybody hanging around now seeing me must have been waiting and that means I’m not clear of tails. I have to make sure I’m clear before I get out of the country, so I have to set a few traps and make sure I’m clear. This bit is so painstaking, and I’m always tired after it.

I flush and go out, washing my hands and carrying the robe balled up under my arm. It goes into a bin soon after and I set about the careful job of checking myself for tails. This would be so much easier if there was somebody else here!

 

*** Riley’s POV ***

 

Riley was getting desperate at this stage. He’d found himself staring into space at the bar, when there was perfectly good alcohol there to be drunk. He’d even nearly missed a particularly delightful brunette who had wandered into the local pub alone. Sadly, he had said pointedly to Roach, there weren’t any red heads around. For some reason Roach didn’t find that very funny and stalked off muttering things about people who were good at pulling girls but terrible at relationships and wanted to take their friends’ fiancées. Si had promptly taken the girl and had a good night.

But he couldn’t do that during the day. Which is why he started thinking about all of the things he could be doing instead of working…and thus got to planning his life. This was a dangerous time for him, and not just because the last thing he’d planned still hadn’t reported in (no news is good news, he swore softly).

Riley was about to apply for a commission.

Who better not to think than an officer?

 

*** MacTavish’s POV ***

 

You know what they say – professional soldiers are predictable, but the world is full of amateurs. I was beginning to think there were rather a lot of amateurs in my neck of the woods. Surveillance isn’t the sort of thing that can be picked up from watching movies and practicing a couple times on your mates. Surveillance takes months of practice, dedicated study, and just a dash of luck to pull it off properly. These guys had none of those three things, at the moment. I wasn’t relying on luck though. There’s another saying about that – she’s a very fickle mistress. So there we were. Me walking along the road at the same speed as the lunch time crowd, unable to read the street signs except in the most general terms since I couldn’t speak the language. Them, walking along the road slightly faster than the crowd and then realising, and walking slightly slower. Them, crawling along in a taxi with a phone glued to their ear. Them, attempting the classic three man tail and failing because they hadn’t practiced it enough and they all had the same marks of amateurs attempting something they weren’t comfortable with. I wasn’t too worried about them. I could lose them. I was worried about any of the professionals I couldn’t see. Would they come to the aid of these amateurs, if I engaged one? Or would they be so well trained that they’d hang back and make me feel secure, before following me and removing all the gear I had on me?

On a whim I crossed the road, affecting some very strong interest in the selection of clothes and accessories in front of me. After all, it would help with the cleaning process, and if Kath didn’t like it, Roach’s missus might. Another determined lassie that, though that was probably because she’d barely made it to 5 foot flat, and had hair as red as any I’d seen back home in Scotland. She’d eat Gary alive one of these days. I shuddered and stepped in, pondering the handbags as though they were the single most important thing on my mind.

It didn’t hurt that when I stepped out (empty handed – the bags were expensive) the man from the taxi was standing, in some consternation, having a discussion with the three other men and looking around as though there was nobody nearby they could call on for help. We continued in this fashion, the five of us, until I got bored. We’d quartered the city and I’d seen rather more of it than I’d expected to. More through good luck than good planning, I was close enough to the main tourist area now to see Sagrada Familia looming up on signs all around the place. The perfect place to drop these annoying tails, and then a rush out to the port. From there it shouldn’t be too hard to get to a tourist hot spot like Ibiza, and fly back to the UK. Shouldn’t be too hard at all.

The next hour was spent with rather more concentration, going through the careful dance of dropping the men (they were all men) following me. Once I was satisfied that they were no longer staring fixedly at me, I jumped into one of the thousand taxis which cruise near such large attractions, and ended up at the port. Luck was on my side this time and I walked from the taxi to a ship to Ibiza. Nine hours. Nine hours on an overnight ferry, but with a 2 man berth all to myself. I could stay up all night pacing the ferry, or I could hole myself away in my room and rest up, eating the food available and taking a break before the next part of the journey.

Rolling myself in the blanket, I rested. No soldier ever passed up the opportunity for falling asleep exactly where he was.


	6. Murphy's Law of Combat #6: If it's stupid but it works, it isn't stupid.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end...for now.

Stepping onto Ibiza was a shock to the senses. I’d been there before, more than a couple times, with mates in the Army. We’d had a grand old time, swigging drinks and carrying on like a right bunch of pricks. Good memories.

I slipped my hands in my pockets and wandered outside the terminal, considering the taxis and wondering what my best option was here. Everyone else was moving past me, shoving for precedence to get outside and on with their holidays, or whatever they were doing. I’d have to bring Kath here some time. She’d look fantastic sprawled out on the beach in one of her bikinis. The perks of having a sportswoman as a partner. Especially one that looked good in red.

Crushing down my fantasy I stepped into a taxi. Scant hours now until I was back on home soil. I pulled out a phone I’d managed to buy on the boat, and called Riley.

“Mate!”  
“You bastard! You better have good news!”  
“I need a flight. Ibiza-UK. Buy me tickets and send them through?”  
“To your throw-away account?”  
“Yeah. The gmail one.”  
There was a pause. A tiny break in the conversation. MacTavish could hear the wheels turning in his head, in Riley’s head. This was an open line. On a phone bought in a tourist hot-spot. In the back of a taxi.  
“I’ll fill you in in person. Nothing major, no new nicks.”  
“Good. You’re ugly enough already.”  
“At least I can feel my hip.”  
“At least I can feel my shin.”  
“Yeah yeah. Hilarious.” Their banter felt comfortable, but not really as though either of them were paying proper attention. John ran a rueful hand over his hip, where a deep cut had healed with no change in his strength or pace, but a patch of skin the size of his palm that could detect pressure and extreme changes of temperate, but nothing else. He could hear Riley tapping away in the background. Soon enough he could hear Riley’s voice – the slightly scratchy one he kept for interaction with his (mostly) straight male friends. The man’s man voice. “Tickets are on their way now. You’re welcome.”  
John pulled the phone from his ear, tapping at the screen and baring his teeth in satisfaction when the email appeared. “Done.” Realising the phone was probably too far away he hastily slapped it back against his cheek. “Done. Cheers mate. I owe you one.”  
“You owe me more than one. Just don’t interrupt my night tonight. See you tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.”  
“Sure?”  
“Sure. It’s just a quickie.”  
MacTavish paused, biting his lip and then nodding, gently, “don’t let me ruin something for you.”  
“You won’t.” Riley replied drily. “This call must be costing you a fortune. Let me know when you land.”  
“Cheers.”

The driver turned down the entrance to the airport as I put the phone away. The terminal looked a lot like every other civvie airport I’d been in, although somewhat smaller than some. I headed straight for the selection of food and dealt with that first, before stretching and wandering through the other shops. A headline caught my eye. My Spanish still wasn’t good but I recognised some of the words.

Thankfully there was a copy of the _Times_ in the rack as well. The world section jumped out at me.

_MONK DEAD_

was the headline. I bought the paper and sat down, breathing shallowly to keep down my food. My stomach roiled. Swallowing, I read the full article. It didn’t take long.

_Spain. A monk has been found dead in an apparent accident at the Spanish monastery of Montserrat. The monk, Fr. Eduardo (36), was discovered by an initiate in the early hours of the morning, while the initiate prepared for Matins. Police were called, and arrived an hour later. The detective in charge has issued a statement in which she linked a spate of separatist activity in the area to the attack. It is suspected that Catalan separatists were undertaking covert operations and were interrupted in some way by Fr. Eduardo. There have been no arrests at this stage. Police say the monastery is assisting with their investigations._

I dropped my eyes briefly, exhaling steadily and then breathing in again to the count of four. Heart under control, I read the article again. Checked the date. This had happened the night after my escape. Standing, I returned to the news stand and leafed through the other papers. In one Spanish paper was a wordier article, with a photo of Montserrat and, inset, a photo of Fr. Eduardo. He was swarthy, broad, brown scruffy hair, some stubble…he would certainly pass for me on a dark night to a group of scared separatists who didn’t know where the next attack would come. Guiltily smoothing the creased paper back in the rack, I walked down the concourse at a steady pace, matching my breathing to my steps. There was no getting around it, the chances of poor Fr. Eduardo being killed because of me were high. If I hadn’t gone there…

Reaching the end of the concourse I turned and stalked back. Of course, there was no way of knowing. No way at all. But coincidences didn’t happen in this sort of job. Not enough that I could believe this was a coincidence. Who killed a harmless priest? Only someone who thought the priest wasn’t harmless. Only someone who thought the man posed a threat. The only threat that was being posed to the separatists that week was me. Everyone wanted to kill a soldier. No-one wanted to kill a priest.

It was a long time before I found myself staring up at the departures board with nothing to do, my mind clear enough to be bored. A long time, but short enough that I could justify returning to the shops and considering what I could buy there. The obvious choice was a book, but I wasn’t ready for another stationers just then. Clothes shops were the only other obvious option.

Two years of a steady relationship with the most feminine of ladies had taught me more than a thing or two about wasting time looking at clothes. Kath would’ve been proud of how I wandered aimlessly around, touching a scarf here, flipping through a rack of jumpers there, and generally not achieving more than startling my wallet with the price of the frippets. With her in mind, I managed to find a light cardigan that should meet with approval. It seemed to be all the rage, judging by the number of the things available. With that in one bag and a fancy evening clutch that was mostly sequins in another, I felt fortified enough to pick out a book. 

***

The change of pressure woke me, and I was still clenching my fingers to try and get rid of the pins and needles the armrests had caused when the sweeties came around. Thankfully the feeling had gone by the time we were landing. The only other bad thing that happened was as we were disembarking. I was standing in the aisle – blocking it, as all fully sized humans do – minding my own business. Suddenly a very angry voice said ‘Really. So rude! Could you _please_ move! Just because he’s a child!’ then, the speaker obviously turned because it was a less strident voice that I heard add, “some people! Think they can ignore children.” Looking around I was confused for a few moments. Surely this wasn’t some elaborate trap? Then I realised there was a boy, aged about 7, jumping from leg to leg and looking blushingly up at me. “Sorry mate” I moved aside as best as the seats would allow (i.e., not far) and his other hand suddenly moved on me. He’d been tugging on my hip but I hadn’t been able to feel it. Poor kid. He rushed off and I turned to the mother. “Look, ma’am, I can see you think that I was ignoring him, but I had no idea he was there.”  
She glared at me, “he’s been hitting you for the last five minutes!”  
We hadn’t been standing for more than a minute but I didn’t think I could say that. “Well I have nerve damage. I can’t feel that hip.”  
“A likely story! At least take responsibility for your actions!”  
“Really ma’am, I can’t. I was in an accident and I have no sensation there.” Not quite the truth…but not a complete lie either. She looked slightly less angry and slightly more like she’d made a mistake. “Well….” Suddenly her husband slapped my hip, hard. I remained still, looking calmly at him. Years of training were quite useful, sometimes.  
“Just checking mate! Reckon the Missus’ll believe you now.” Thankfully I was spared a reply by the line suddenly moving off. I made sure to stride off the air-bridge as quickly as possible, in case the stupid family were following.

There, scruffy and with eyes still ringed with the vestiges of mascara, was Si. I’d never been so glad to see the bastard.

*** Riley’s POV ***

MacTavish is back and it’s the best feeling I’ve had in a week – even including last night. I grin and barely wince at all as he grabs me and lifts me. I’m still a bit tender. “Let’s get going” He agrees with me and follows me out into the cool breeze. “Seen the news today?” He asks, glancing down at me through the edges of his eye, a sort of sly look. Like me Mam when she knows full well I haven’t made it to school but she wants to see what excuse I’ll come up with.  
“Not yet. Only just got up.” He laughs pointedly at that and rolls his eyes, passing me the _Times_ as we walk. The carpark here is very long. It’s going to cost a fortune.

We walk in silence for a few steps. Normally it’s companionable and relaxed but this time there’s an edge to it. Like I have to react a certain way or he’ll be off again. Unsettled. As unbalanced as his steps. He’s obviously taken some damage. He glowers pointedly and I skim through.

 _A monk has been found dead…_ _Montserrat…discovered by an initiate…while the initiate prepared for Matins. Police were called…she linked a spate of separatist activity in the area to the attack…Catalan separatists were undertaking covert operations...There have been no arrests...Police say the monastery is assisting with their investigations._  

“He looked like me.”  
I look up at him for so long that he flushes. “This happened because you were there.” It’s not exactly a question, but it isn’t _not_ a question, either.  
“I took a robe.”  
“I don’t think karma works like that.” He laughs shortly at my words, taking the paper back and stuffing it into his bag again. “I’ve killed a monk.”  
“No. You heightened their suspicions. They chose to kill him.”  
“If I hadn’t gone there he’d still be alive.”  
“Yes.”  
“So I killed him.”  
I’m beginning to see this cyclical argument will get very tiring. “No you didn’t. There was no way of knowing they’d react like that. They chose to react over twelve hours after you’d already left, and to be too pig-headed to see if they’d got the right man first.”  
He looks at me for a moment, as we get into the car. I sit gingerly but am far happier driving my own vehicle. “Si, if I wasn’t there this man would still be alive.”  
“Yes. But if you weren’t there, mothers and children who are going to be forced out of their homes would be stranded, because we’d have no warning. If you weren’t there, these bastards who think attacking innocents is alright would triumph. You may have been a catalyst for their poorly planned execution of an innocent man, but you brought back everything we need. A treasure trove.”  
“You’re using utilitarianism.”  
“And logic. You didn’t arrange for the death, so it’s not your responsibility.”  
He remains unconvinced, I know, but he lets it go for now. Who knows how often we’ll re hash this until his current moral wound is healed. Probably until the next one comes along. What a crappy job.

We drive in silence for a few miles, until I get us onto the motorway. John shakes his head, stretching carefully, and grins over when I wince in sympathy. “Not a very restful night?”  
“Absolutely not! I don’t think I’ve slept for the last two nights.” I grin back “and not at all for the same reasons you haven’t.”  
His warm smile helps me relax more; no matter his Kath and my various boys and girls, we always have this bond. “Pleased for you, mate. Think it’ll last?”  
“I hope so!” I’m bubbling inside, the initial signs all looking good.  
“Tell me about him?” He listens carefully, laughing at all the right points, regarding his own impressive musculature when I describe my man’s, generally being a great friend. When I’ve finally run out of things to say, and we’re tens of miles closer to home, he reaches around to the back seat. “Got Simone something” John’s voice is gruff, almost shy. “Figured she might like it. Even if she’s got someone now.” I grin across. Simone has always been just a friend to MacTavish. Too much like cheating on whoever his girl had been at the time, and now Simone and Kath are friends it’s just not going to happen. “Cheers. Let’s see it then”  
He pulls it out and the glinting of the sequins nearly blinds me. “Does Kath know that you’re buying other women handbags?”  
“It’s a clutch, actually.”  
“And there was I worried that people will tease me!” I laugh. His expression of pedantic amusement is too good to miss.  
“I hope that nice man didn’t tease you last night.”  
“Not at all. I actually think I learnt something.” He smirks at my admission, ruffling my hair and putting the clutch back in the back seat for later. “Thank heavens for that! You’re so inexperienced!” We both have a good laugh and he cranks the radio up. Conversation time is over, for now.

***

“I don’t wanna debrief. I’ve just had one.”  
“Yeah. Now come and have one with me. Me and my mate Johnny.” I wink, grasping his shoulder. MacTavish regards my hand for a moment, clearly wondering if he should make a break for it.  
“Johnny’s pretty old mate. Come on.” The alcoholic enticement appears to work, though it’s not what he’d consider anything like good whisky. I don’t need it to be good.  
“Your rooms’ bloody tiny.” MacTavish grumbles, as he always does. I remember I haven’t told him I’ve applied to commission. Plenty of time to tell him tomorrow, or the day after. Tonight isn’t about me.  
“I know. Sit down. Drink up. Talk out.” Suiting actions to words I soon have both of us seated, holding drinks, Johnny Walker bottle nearby. He huffs a sigh, but I know he’ll talk. I know he’ll talk because I’ve conditioned him to, to respond to the stimulus. I know he’ll talk because I’ve picked a time when he’s held it in and presented a concise mission report to the S2 and the S3, and now he wants to expand on that. His mind’s already whirling. I know he’ll talk.

“I went in like we planned. Pretended to be a Yank, went for a quick walk around the place. Reckon lots of people noticed but thankfully not the ones in the hills. They’ve got great comms, don’t get me wrong. Just that the guy I found wasn’t ready.” He takes a pull. I grunt and wait.  
“He came at me in the Nave – you know, that bit at the churc-“  
“Yeah mate, I know.”  
“Yeah well he came at me there. Stupid, really. Half my height. Mad, angry little man, but just too small. I took him up somewhere quiet. Hard to get to the caves, he was bloody heavy. Short and thick. Eventually he woke up and started talking.”  
Silently, I refill our glasses.  
“Found out where the cave was and how to get there, all that stuff, and headed up. It was shittily cold, freezing really. They don’t say that bit in the guide book! Anyway.” MacTavish took another swig, regarding the bottle happily. “So I went up to their shitty little caves and stuck my head in. No-one around, the stone’s really cold so it’s great for the sensors. Pretty much the clearest reading I’ve had, because there’s no wind or anything either. There I am, grabbing stuff and doing the download and upload stuff – fuck knows what’s on the drive, I just plug it in. Sensor goes off, I spend the next forever holed up in the back of the cave.”  
I can’t help a snigger at the idea. John isn’t the sort of guy to play hide and seek.  
“Took them till bloody near on night to get going again. I hopped it down and found a new cave, a nice one just for me. Got all sorted and packed everything nicely, then high-tailed it up to rummage a wardrobe.” I must have snickered at that image because John throws the remains of his Johnny Walker at me then demands a refill. Bastard.  
“Got dressed into the robe and…and left.” I wait for a moment in case he wants to continue.

“Did you kill a monk?” I ask. He looks like I’ve kicked a puppy.  
“Course I bloody didn’t. I’m not a fuckwit.”  
I let the silence grow. He downs his third glass of the night and coughs before he tries talking again.

"Got dressed into the robe, went down to the funicular and waited for it to turn up. I had to hang onto the side of it – the driver was chatty and I don’t speak enough to talk with him properly. There’s some pretty squashed trees just before the train station, feeling sorry for themselves.” I grin at his attempt at humour, the grin fading when he lifts up his shirt and shows the yellow and purple and green. “Nothing you can’t heal with a bit of time.”  
“I know. So I got onto the train, gave a few blessings. You know-“ He stands up, waving his hand in a cross and mumbling _in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_ _, Amine._ It’s quite impressive and I mumble an Amen after it. Just in case.

MacTavish chuckles and sits. “They were in Barcelona too. Picked me up there – I didn’t have a tail at the station. We had a great few hours bumbling around the place before I finally lost them. Had to make sure they were the only ones. They were dumb amateurs.”  
“How rude! They should’ve sent their best.”  
“Yeah. Bastards.” He downs another glass. “Then the boat to Ibiza, then the plane here. Dumb woman on the plane…”  
He tells me some long story about the woman not believing he can’t feel his skin. I know he can’t. Took a while to get used to it. He used to love having that hip touched. I wasted a lot of effort on it, before I grew to remember it.

“Stupid woman. You’re here now.” I pass him my phone, “call Kath. Tell her you’re here.” I stand, stripping and finding fresh boxers. Drop into bed. I’m not interested in anything too physical tonight, but he probably isn’t either. He looks dead beat.

I fall asleep as he talks, his accent thickening. His cold feet on my legs wake me enough, “do that again and I’ll smother you with a pillow.” I mutter.  
“You wouldn’t. Too much paperwork.” He wraps his arms around me and I hear him counting his breath. I lie still and eventually, I don’t know when, one of us and then the other drops off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this might be something someone can show their friend to open a conversation about support. Remember, it isn’t just one piece of support or one conversation, it’s hundreds of them. Being there for someone is something you might have to do for days or weeks or months. You might have to do it sporadically over years. They might not be able to articulate it. They might not be able to trust themselves because their mind and body have already turned against them. You mightn’t be able to have your friend there for you, you might have to cash in on all those times they were there for you and you said you’d be happy to do the same. If you have a friend who’s going through a dark time, who’s deployed with the military, who works in medicine….you’ll need to accept that it could be a long haul. If you can’t accept that then find that person someone else who can.  
> Your friend probably can't find them for themself.  
> And if you’ve done said things, if you know the meaning of pink mist, and you know the deep dragging exhaustion of leaving a memorial service to run outside into the heat and dust to go back to work, please talk to someone. Anyone. Keep talking until someone listens.  
> You are important.


End file.
